Mortification in a Public Bathroom: In Which our Heroine Innocently Tries to Change a Diaper and Makes the Acquaintance of the Security Guard.

My life is measured out in library storytimes. Today I think it is going well. I’m happy that the most embarrassing thing that has happened is Cedar telling Miss Kitty, “That looks like poop!” as we looked at a book with a chicken laying an egg. I have no idea.

As always we sit on the benches in the foyer and have snack after storytime. Cedar takes an unusually long time eating, almost an hour. She nibbles Cheddar Bunnies, Whole Wheat Bunnies, raisins and part of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My lunch is her crust. Each time I ask if she’s done, she picks up another cracker and nibbles daintily.

She also comments loudly on everyone who walks by.

About a woman with three well-behaved girls walking in a line, “Look mama, three sisters all in a row!” I tell her soon she and Coral will be two sisters in a row. She knits her eyebrows and reminds me, “Mom, Coral can’t walk.” Then she asks, “What’s the mama’s name?”

Of two men having what looks like a private conversation, “What are those men talking about?”

Cedar has no indoor voice. Everyone hears her, smiles and goes on their way. I’m not sure how to tell her one shouldn’t talk about other people while watching them. You’re supposed to wait until after they can’t hear you. I think her volume is embarrassing. Again, I have no idea.

She finally finishes eating and we get the key to the bathroom. I fumble to get it open while trying to drag Coral, the car seat, and forty pounds of snowsuits and coats with me. Cedar runs away, spinning jumping and shaking around the trees. She starts playing “Flow and Freeze,” a game in which one dances wildly on “flow” and stops on “freeze” by herself. She shouts, “Flow!” and continues the circuit around the trees. I get the door open, say, “Cedar, I’m counting to three. . .” and before I can finish, she runs into the bathroom. I think it’s going well.

I strap Coral to the changing table and help Cedar on the potty.

“I need to poop, Mom,” she says. She tells me she doesn’t want any help, so I leave her there, holding herself up over the seat, concentrating on keeping her arms straight. Coral screams on the changing table. I get her a diaper and begin. She calms down a little, but she’s tired. Getting her into the car seat is going to be a struggle. I’m just relieved we made it into the bathroom.

I look back at Cedar, still suspended over the potty on her skinny little arms. She says, “Go out, Mom!” I tell her I can’t. She tells me, “Turn around!”

I do. I decide it’s a good time to put on Coral’s coat and strap her into the car seat. Cedar will be done soon. Coral, who hates putting on sleeves, renews her screaming to protest her impending restraint. She’s recently discovered a high-pitched shriek she likes to let us know she’s really mad. She practices it with gusto.

I look at Cedar. She tells me, “Turn around!”

I do. I decide I should put on my coat, hat, scarf, so we’ll be ready to go when Cedar’s done. The second her car seat touches the floor Coral screams. I immediately begin sweating, whether it’s wearing winter gear inside or the hormonal response to a screaming infant I do not know.

I pick up Coral and commence the quiet the baby bounce. It only lessens her volume a little. I look at Cedar. She says, “I’m still pooping!” I think her arms must be ready to give out and I fear that I don’t have enough extra clothes to dress her if she falls in the toilet.

I turn around and stand there in my sweatshirt, coat, hat and scarf, bouncing up and down hoping Coral will stop crying. I try to keep from putting my back out by bending at the knees. Cedar, seeing me moving, says, “Flow” “Freeze” “Flow” Freeze.” I want to be anywhere but this bathroom.

I decide the poop must be over. I set Coral down, inciting screaming, lift Cedar off the potty and begin the multi-step process that will take us from wiping to washing hands, to putting on a snowsuit.

Cedar whines and screams. She doesn’t want to wash her wands. “Why do I have to wash hands?” she cries. “Because you were just touching a toilet seat,” I reply loudly, to be heard over Coral’s screaming, and I suddenly realize that everyone in the library foyer is listening to our every word—the two women setting up a display in the case, the check out counter employees, the older woman waiting for her ride on a bench and anyone coming or going.

I try to go faster, but Cedar doesn’t want any of it—her vest, her mittens, her coat, and her hat. She cries in harmony with the car seat screamer. I am sweating through my shirt.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. “Is everything all right in there?” It’s the library security guard. “Can I do anything to help?” I don’t know if he’s there because he’s heard the screaming and feels sorry for me, or if someone summoned him, saying, “There’s a horrible woman abusing her children in the bathroom.”

Over the two shrieking girls I yell, “No, the baby’s just in the car seat and I’m trying to get the other one dressed.” He says something else, but I can’t hear him. It’s too loud. I plod on, forcing mittens over Cedar’s clenched hands.

I fear a crowd has assembled in the lobby, arms crossed on their chests, toes quietly tapping their disapproval, glasses perched on the tips of their noses. I imagine the OCS officer waiting to take custody of my children, foster parents on bended knees whispering, “You poor things, we’re here to help,” and a pair of British nannies saying nothing.

I wish I could slip on a black lycra catsuit, climb out through the ventilation system, dragging the car seat and diaper bag. We could come out on the roof, tie all the snowpants together and rappel down, but we have to walk through the door. And before I’m out of library, I have to hand the key back to the woman at the check out desk who has heard every word.